Klokateers II: The Renegades
by fieldandfountain
Summary: Charles Foster Ofdensen seeks his revenge on a former Klokateer, while also battling his desire for her. Meanwhile, when a young woman from his past takes the Hood, he is forced to confront his deepest held beliefs. A sequel to Eileen on You, though it stands on its own. Darker, more dramatic, and sensual.
1. The Well of Desire

It was late, far later than Charles usually went to sleep. Not that he needed much- a good three hours and he was ready to go again. But he liked order in his personal life when everything else at Mordhaus was so chaotic. And when he lay in bed, awake, his mind would drift to thoughts, and though he hated to admit it, _feelings,_ that he would have preferred to avoid.

Leila Brimston, the Brimstone Bitch, had been gone a month now. She had worked at Mordhaus for several years as an online security specialist, or rather a hacker. She had betrayed the institution, and through it Dethklok, by uncovering highly specialized information. She had been quickly caught and put to interrogation, that is torture by electrodes. But had rigged the secret island fortress beforehand so that the levies would give way under excessive electric currents, and his billion dollar fortress had been flooded and destroyed. And what did he do in response! In a fit of desire and truly uncharacteristic compassion, Charles had released her from her bonds and saved her from drowning. Worst yet, they had kissed on the tower of the crumbling fortress before being rescued, and were lovers for weeks after that.

_It had been a serious lapse of judgment._

If the band weren't so damned oblivious, they would be angry at him for his lack of professionalism, for putting them all at risk, but they seemed to like him all the better for it. Sacrifices such as his were truly thankless.

Not that he had moved to make the sacrifice- he had pursued his folly to the bitter end. It was she who had escaped, and he who had sought to rescue her- no, not recapture her, but _rescue_ her. Again.

And now she was hiding out in a human rights cell, planning to push Mordhaus to reform, to open the prisons to public inspection. There were no press conferences, no memos, and she had likely taken on another identity, but he had found out her intentions nonetheless. She might be a top hacker, but she couldn't match him for resources.

What right did she have to interfere? All the dead here had signed their lives away, and those who hadn't? They had stolen Dethklok's music or sought to defame them- they were his enemies and he would hound them to the grave. And now Leila's name was at the top of that list.

_Leila- dead_.

The thought was a mix of satisfaction, relief, and horror. He saw her in this very room, alternately mocking and fiercely hungry, as she had been time and time again. They were people with staunch allegiances- he to Dethklok and the very art of professionalism, she to her passion for justice. And yet they had thrown them aside for a primal, foolish instinct.

She had dug into his back as though she really had meant to destroy him, and then negated all her hatred with a mouth that crushed under his. Charles's hand moved unconsciously to his chest, lifting up his t-shirt. It had been in this very bed where he first took her, or was taken- it was very hard to say which. They had been rattled through their narrow escape from death, and its promise still coursed their veins, nudging them an acts against their consciences. The first time had been quick and brutal, until over time they learned to control themselves. It had been awkward in its way, but he couldn't seem to let it go.

Charles kneaded circles with his palm over his chest, and felt his other hand glide slowly under his pajamas until it cradled his cock.

_There she was, naked beside him, but still possessed of the uncanny ability to lay him equally bare. Her dark gold hair was tousled and she blinked at him through long, narrow green eyes. He reached for her as through grappling through the dark; there was something about her that brought back the inept sensations of childhood. _

Charles took a shuddering breath and squeezed his cock. A ripple of pleasure ran down his spine and he turned his face toward the pillow.

_Leila plunged into his arms. Her small firm breasts pushed against his chest and her mouth met his in a greedy kiss. _

Charles bit the pillow and stroked himself steadily. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead.

_It was much like it had been in the tower, with the sense that there was no time left in the world. They had to move and quickly, or an untimely death would take them. Their mouths stayed fixed in position and Leila wrapped her legs around him. She pulled back her legs and groaned as he pushed his way into her. He plunged deep and let her encase him. She threw back her head and panted as he increased his pace. _

Charles moved his hand faster, and felt his arms trembling. It wouldn't be much longer…

_They struggled until they couldn't bear it any longer, and gave way to the pleasure. He felt her pulse around him, and he released with a in a throbbing wave, pressing his mouth on hers. _

Charles shuddered and came into his hand. He pressed other palm to his mouth to quiet his cries. He didn't want to be heard, he couldn't be heard.

He let his head clear, and his breath return to normal as he stared at the ceiling.

_It didn't matter what it took. He would abandon this idiocy._


	2. Seeking Absolution

A small, rickety car swerved down the drive to the mammoth parking lot, and was lost in the sea of cars outside the concert arena.

A shadowy woman, or girl by appearances, sat in the driver's seat. She dug in the mess at the foot of the passenger seat and pulled out a bottle of scotch. With a deep breath, she took a swig and wiped her lips with her sleeve. She turned up the music, Bethlehem, a metal band from Germany, and nestled into the seat.

Then she adjusted the rear view mirror. It was hard to get a good view of her appearance, but her hazel eyes were deeply lined, and covered in heavy black eyeshadow. She tilted her mouth to the mirror, and applied a thick coat of red lipstick to her full lips. _A whores's lips_, she thought. An uneasiness overtook her. She had driven eight hours that day, and eight the night before, sleeping in the old Ford at a rest station. She had dressed herself at the gas station an hour before, and the attendant's jaw dropped when had walked back to the car.

She was wearing a tight cropped bustier in cream-colored lace and a tiny black leather skirt with a huge gold zipper up the side. Her thick boots went over her knees, and cream colored thigh highs crept up above them.

Malena was of average height and of black and white Dominican descent, though her family had lived in the northeast for two generations. She had golden brown skin and wavy brown hair that had been dyed blonde. Her eyes were large and hazel, and had a mischievous glint that made her appear younger, almost child-like. She had a small cleft in her chin, and a long white scar that curved from the right side of her forehead over her skull to her right brow.

_What was she doing_? She didn't normally dress like this, and she didn't consider herself the type to be a groupie. Malena was very well aware that she was acting out, as she often did when circumstances in her life went beyond her control, but she didn't admit to herself. Her father, whom she had hated, had died six months ago in prison, and she had broken it off with yet another drug dealer boyfriend. Derek still called her relentlessly, his voice messages ranging from pleading to broken-hearted to threatening. She had just changed her number, but she still felt a thrill of anxiety whenever the phone rang.

Now she would finally see Dethklok, as she had always dreamed of, and expose herself to deadly violence. Then maybe if she survived she would get to the front, and possibly sleep with one of the band members. The thought gave her little pleasure, but it seemed to her the natural course of events. It was some excitement, some escape from the crippling emptiness.

Maybe she would brag about it to her friends. They didn't listen to metal, but everyone knew about Dethklok. They would call her a whore, but it would spite Derek, and that would be something. Even he wouldn't have the gall to go banging on Dethklok's door at night.

She entered the arena with caution. She was used to crowds, and noise, but this was beyond her comprehension. They had set up a huge silvery stage, and flashing lights were already flickering like so many horizons across it. People of every description surrounded her: traditional metal-heads, regular jerk-offs in jeans and ratty hair and Dethklok t-shirts, and the wannabe groupies, just like her. She peered down at her outfit with distaste. She liked to be original, but it was obvious there would be others.

She wasn't strong, but she was very agile, and darted her way around the front. She felt a rising excitement- in spite of the recent events that had crushed her, she was still legitimately excited to finally see Dethklok in concert.

There was a powerful guitar riff, both triumphant and haunting, and the show had begun. Nathan Explosion leapt from nowhere and appeared on the stage, hunched over and menacing. He was a large, hulking man, and she wondering how he jumped so well. It had taken her years of practice to learn to land firmly on her feet from high places.

She was forced up against a skinny man with greasy brown hair, and could feel his wallet against her hip. She had the sense that she could slip her fingers down and snatch it. He wouldn't notice. But then she remembered that her father was dead. She hadn't done that in years, and didn't have to anymore. She leaned back her head, soaking in the deep drumbeat and rising guitars, and meditated on the thought.

_The worms had him now._ She remembered her childhood, and poem that taught her that the worms got almost everyone in the end. _The Conqueror Worm_. And then she thought of the man who had explained the words to her. She knew he had dealings with Dethklok now, but primarily worked in the shadows. She tried not to let it interrupt her pleasure.

Several groupies were up front, screaming out words of adoration, and lifting their tops. Malena felt a distinct distaste, but knew better than to judge them.

_She was one of them now_.

She asked herself if she had the heart to go through with it and then remembered that she had no heart. She wasn't evil or malicious, but the warmth, the delicate sense of feeling had left her a long time ago.

The concert was coming to a close, and she saw a crew of Klokateers appear behind the barrier, scanning the audience. She knew what they were looking forward, and pushed herself to the front. She ran her hand through her thick hair, pursed her lips slightly, and stared them down. There was a small consultation between two of them, and they pointed at her, opening up the barrier so she could slip through. So she had done it.

Compared to the slick silver of the stage, the backstage structure was old and crumbling, with blinking lights and rotting linoleum underfoot. Several other girls accompanied her- a pair of excessively chesty twins, and a tiny, very eager redhead. Malena felt a pang- the girl really didn't look like she was more than sixteen. She spotted a figure in the corner of her eye and she turned swiftly. He was approaching from the hall, and she could only make out squinting eyes behind a pair of glasses and a small grimace. With a shudder, she hurried on.

Malena was led into a long room. It had the same musty smell as the rest of the building, but had been rapidly furnished with several Ikea lamps and a huge white bed with metal side tables.

_Of course_, she thought, noting the simplistic Scandinavian design of the furniture. _Skwisgaar_. He was sexy no doubt, but his taste for the exotic was well known, and it irritated her that she had been immediately shoved in that category. She didn't see herself that way, like some freak to be added to a collection. But the Klokateers had probably done what seemed the easiest without much consideration for delicacies.

She bit her nails, a nervous habit of hers. The other girls were still with her, staring with bated breathe at the door. She certainly wasn't up for an orgy- she imagined something quick, daring, and heartless, but certainly private.

"Hellos ladies!" said Skwisgaar, stretching out his arms, either in greeting or in expectation of the worship due to a god. His corpse paint was running down his eyes, and it set off the golden glow of his hair. The three others threw themselves into his embrace, laughing with delight. At that moment, Malena envied them. She would have liked to have acted with such joyful abandon. She wished she had had more to drink. As it was, she slumped against an unlit corner of the wall watching them like a disinterested spectator.

Skwisgaar touched the girls at their waists, and laid a kiss on each of their expectant mouths. His eyes darted in Malena's direction, and he squinted.

"Comes here, lady. Don't be afraids."

She stepped out of the shadows, and he tilted his head. His pupils dilated, minimizing the cold blue of his eyes. He walked towards her, leaving the other women. Malena let out a little shudder as his long hands reached for her lower back, and he pulled her toward him. Skwisgaar kissed her neck with an open mouth. She could feel his tongue and his teeth and her heart beat frantically. He took her by the hips, pushed her on the bed with a small chuckle and wriggled on top of her. _It was all happening so quickly_…

"That's enough there, uh, Skwisgaar." Skwisgaar's body went stiff and Malena craned her head. A suited figure was standing at the door.

"What the fucks?" said Skwisgaar. "Private times!"

"Now there are plenty of nice ladies who, ah, are very interested in meeting you. But not that one."

Malena didn't know what to say. She knew Skwisgaar was looking at her, waiting for a response

"Really, it's okay," she said softly, hoping the man would leave. She had somehow not considered the utter lack of privacy in the life of a groupie.

"See, she says it's okays!" said Skwisgaar testily. "Leave us alones and go makes some paperworks or somethink."

But the man tilted his head, and two Klokateers physically separated them.

"What the fucks!" cried Skwisgaar, twisting his body.

"Hands off," said Malena fiercely. "I can get up on my own."

She wondered why this suited man wanted to get rid of her. Perhaps he had heard about some of her former boyfriends, but they were all such small fry that it didn't seem likely. She shook out her hair as she stood, and stared him in the eye.

"Hello, Malena," he said.

She felt all her confidence give way. It couldn't be- but it surely was….

It was Charles Foster Ofdensen or, as she had known him, Mr. Charles.


	3. Early Years

It was difficult to believe, but Charles Foster Ofdensen had once been a college student. Even then he had his nose to the grindstone, hatching plots and building a future for himself. He was an upcoming master of martial arts and fencing, and that, combined with his perfect test scores, made him a shoe-in for the university of his choice. The problem came when he had to apply to law school. He planned a dual degree in business and law, and of course he had headed straight his advisor, Professor Wallace, to inquire about law schools.

"Well, Charles," said the elderly woman, peering down her nose at him and running through his files. "Very, very impressive."

Charles smiled, in the professional manner he had honed in high school. He was used to this response.

"But I'm afraid law schools nowadays, well, they want more."

"What more could they possibly ask for?" He asked. Charles really meant it. He was a superior specimen, and he knew it.

"Well, your resume is quite outstanding for someone your age. But it's lacking something. "

"Yes?" he asked. He liked his conversations direct and to the point.

"Community outreach. Charles, you have no history of volunteering, whatsoever. You're going to need to give back."

"Give back? Give back what?" He was a fencer, a martial artist, and superb with people. He had perfect grades, several published papers, and had been asked to give several lectures of subjects ranging from botany to the use of statistics in poker. What more could they possibly want from him?

"Listen," said Professor Wallace, removing her glasses. "I know just the thing for you. Mentoring children."

"I don't know the first thing about kids." He really didn't.

"There's a program for underprivileged youth across town. And I think an upstanding young man like you would be just the thing. Such a good example."

"Perhaps I could do my time in some lab somewhere? Alone?"

"Oh, Charles, as excellent as your files are, you're lacking somewhat in, well, being a team player. You need to work with people. And you'd be such an inspiration! So much accomplishment, and from such a humble background-"

Charles's brow furrowed. "I, uh, don't know what you're saying. You may recall that I attended Deerfield Academy, the country's prime boarding school."

"Of course, of course. But if I recall you were adopted-"

"I'll do it." He said. He didn't like where this conversation was going.

"Excellent," said Professor Wallace. She handed him a brochure. _S_t_ar Youth Outreach. _Charles smirked a little. The image showed a group of kids of various backgrounds huddled in together, with big smiles on their faces.

"Shall I sign you up for Tuesday and Thursday afternoons?"

"I play chess on Thursdays."

"Perhaps you can rearrange-"

"Impossible." said Charles. He probably should be sucking up to his advisor more, but he was a born negotiator. And the only student at his university who wore a suit.

Her eyebrows rose. She knew what she was dealing with. "All right then, Tuesday and _Wednesday_ afternoons, 2-5."

"So we're agreed," he said, as though they had been bargaining. He rose quickly from his seat. There went his six hours of his carefully organized, no, _curated_ week, and he did not appreciate the interruption.

From the first martial arts demonstration, the kids took to Charles. Really took to him. Any man who could do back-flips was sure to be a success at Star Youth. The teenagers held back a little, suspicious of the white man in a suit, but even they huddled in to watch the demonstrations.

It wasn't so bad really, a chance to show off his skills before an adoring audience. He did a touch of tutoring, but mainly he just performed. A little girl, about six or seven, always managed to dart through the legs of the older students to stand at the front of the crowd. She had amber skin and huge eyes with a yellowish tint.

"You Batman?" she asked him once, when he had finished a fencing demonstration..

"Maybe," he said, peering down at her. His eyesight was getting worse and worse.

"I think you Batman."

"You're Batman," he corrected her.

"Mine?" she said, wrapping her arms around his legs.

"Malena, leave him alone," called out Mrs. Green, the volunteer coordinator.

She pulled back her arms and whispered "I want my own Batman."

"And why is that?" he asked, amused.

"To kill my daddy." Charles lay down his sword, and then nodded. It made sense to him. He had wanted to kill his daddy once, and maybe it was a natural part of growing up. But he didn't intend to make promises he couldn't keep.

He ducked down to her level. "No, ahm, I'm just teasing you. I'm not Batman."

Malena's face fell, and then she pouted, her fury shining through her eyes in a disturbingly unchildlike way.

It would be fun to tell her everything. "I don't want to be here, but I have to get into law school. You see, being a lawyer is like being Batman. You get to know all kinds of secrets about other people, and then trick your enemies."

She smiled, showing a gap in her teeth. Was there really such a job out there?

"I wanna be a lawwer." She said.

"And then," he said, lifting his rapier. "You can take them down. Every word you say is like a cut." He thrust the weapon to the right, and to the left, battling an imaginary foe. "It's hard sometimes." He spun around, bending over backwards but continuing to slice. "So when they they try to outsmart you you, they're all cut to pieces, and all it takes is the final blow- the closing argument." He made one quick slash, and the American flag fell to the floor. His jaw dropped. He had been so caught up in the moment, he had realized exactly _what _he had been doing.

The supervising volunteer, a middle-aged housewife named Mrs. Green, gasped, and clutched his arm. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed into his ear.

He shrugged. "I don't see very well," he said.

"Well get yourself some glasses," she spat. "And don't come back anymore. What a horrible example to the children!"

The kids were laughing, and clapped as he took a final bow, and exited the building. _Well that was easy_. He thought. He just hoped it wouldn't go on his record.

"Wait," cried a small voice.

"Don't you think you better get inside, kid?" It was freezing, and Malena was only wearing a dirty t-shirt.

"Where you goin?" she asked him, rocking on her heels.

"Well, ah, I caused some problems there, and they don't want me back."

The small girl put her hands on her hips. She hadn't understood all that he had said- about arguments and all that, but this man had power. He could cut up the flag and walk out the classroom just like that, and he could probably take down her dad. She had a vague sense that he could use words just like he used that sword, and save himself from his enemies. Small as she was, she had an enemy. She was quick too, though in a different way. She could dart through the crowd, and snatch cash from people's pockets when her daddy told her too. But she was scared, and didn't like it, and wanted to be stronger.

"I wanna be a lawwer." She said, just like she had earlier.

"Well, stay in school, kid," he said, patting her arm. Something he had picked up somewhere. TV? He didn't watch trash. It just sounded apt.

Malena's features contorted in real rage, and her hands made tiny fists.

"What?" he said, somewhat amused. "You gonna hit me?"

That was what her daddy said. No, she couldn't hit him. She shrieked in anger and shoved her way through his legs. His dress shoes had little traction. They gave way on the ice, and he toppled over onto a pile of hardened snow. Groaning, he pushed himself up, and saw the small figure darting down the darkening street.

"Little pain in the ass," he murmured. But he was impressed. It had been years since an opponent could knock him down.

He dusted himself off and headed home. He didn't notice the small face that peered at him from around the corner.

Professor Wallace had not been pleased with him. "It would be a shame if you threw away your chances of law school," she said the next day. "Just because you can't play nice with others."

"I do play nice," he replied. "It was just a flag. And I couldn't really see it anyway."

Professor Wallace sighed. "You know," she said. "I almost-just almost- believe you. Why don't you get a pair of glasses?"

Charles was silent.

"I bet I know," she said. "It would spoil your illusion of _perfection_."

"That's not it all," he snapped. He didn't really think of himself as a genetically blessed human being, just incredibly well made.

"And please, will you please just do something," said Professor Wallace as he was walking out. "anything to put on your record?"

He slammed the door behind him, squinting in the snow. It was because it was bright.

"Ugh," he said.

He went to the optometrist that afternoon, and came home with glasses. He was actually pleased with the effect. He looked several years older and far more professional. What was more, it would certainly improve his fencing, which had been increasingly under par the past few months. He laughed to himself, remembering what a stir he had caused when he cut up the flag.

Charles lived alone in a small apartment. He had moved out of the dorm as soon as possible so he could surround himself with the appropriate atmosphere. He made extra money through his part time job as a paralegal, and his excellent taste soaked up most of it, whether he was buying lamps, bourbon, or rapiers. He was fixing himself bourbon on the rocks when he heard a small knock on the door. It sounded like something had simply brushed up against it, and he picked up a legal manual. But it grew stronger and more persistent.

He slammed the manual shut and went for the door.

It was the little girl, Malena.


	4. A Demon in the Home

His first instinct was to laugh, but her features were deadly serious.

"How in the hell- I mean, in the heck, did you find me?" he asked.

"I followed you yesterday," she said. Malena was still in a t-shirt, and her golden skin had gone dull from the cold. He really did not want to let her in. They might think he was a pedo or something. But he didn't need a dead kid on his doorstep either.

"Come in and warm up. Then you have to go," he said.

She strolled in, idly observing his furniture, and running her fingers along his bookshelf. The little girl had quite a sense of entitlement. She was dirty as usual, in the same tattered shirt and jeans as yesterday. But her head was held high as she condescended to apologize to him.

"I sorry I knocked you over." She said.

"_I'm sorry_," he corrected her.

"Nah, that's okay, Mr. Charles," she said. She slumped into his armchair, her feet sticking straight out. She looked business-like, as though she were about to negotiate a deal with him.

"I don't like my teacher at school. And Mrs. Green don't know nothin'."

He hesitated to correct her. She always seemed to get the better of him when he did. "I wanna fight people with words, like you was saying."

"You could always knock them over," said Charles wryly.

She pouted. She needed a good bath, but she was a cute kid.

"Nah, my daddy, he think he so smart. But he a liar. He hide the money, think I don't see nothin'. And I know where it come from too."

Charles felt uneasy of several levels. He was proud of his own courage and intelligence, but it occurred to him this little girl had worlds on him in life experience. The obstacles he faced were easy, but she was up against something. And then there was the fact that he had someone who was clearly a criminal's daughter in his house.

"So I wanna learn to talk that way you say is like cutting someone up. So when I grow up I can cut up everyone who try to hurt me. Be a lawwer."

Something in the ferocity of her words appealed to him. He always had a dark side, and there weren't many outlets for it in academic life. When he was a lawyer, and a businessman besides, things would change.

"Law-yer," he corrected her.

"Law-yerrr." she repeated.

That was their first lesson.

The next day he informed Professor Wallace that he not only had gotten glasses, but an underprivileged student to tutor.

First he worked on her grammar, which she held onto stubbornly. He knew she could easily speak properly, but somehow resisted being changed.

She finally relented, and after that he had her read increasingly difficult books. She preferred the darker ones, stories of horror and suspense.

"You're going to find it pretty dull when we get to law." He said.

Charles had no problem getting into law school now, and matriculated in the school attached to his university. It was the best one in the nation, after all, and with one extra year he could also get his MBA.

And somehow, Malena continued her visits. He didn't need her anymore, but for some reason he never stopped them. She amused him, he figured, and it reached the point where she could read and study on her own with only the occasional interference from him. He liked her company, and the strange glint in her eye when she read a passage that she liked. She always sat in the original leather armchair, but now she sat upright, emulating Charles, with her feet nearly touching the ground. She was cleaner too, but her clothes were still ragged at times. Occasionally she would have something new, and if Charles would ask her where she got it, she would simply shake her wavy hair as if to say 'Don't ask me that.'

He didn't ask her, as he didn't ask her many things. As she grew older she was far more secretive about her life at home, and soon she never mentioned her father, or whether or not she hated him. He didn't even know if she still wanted to be lawyer. She liked words though- that was clear. Charles often heard her light voice sounding out the syllables, and she would look up at him for a definition. He usually sent her to his hulking dictionary, but occasionally, as a special treat, he would help her through a whole paragraph.

When she was ten he was in his second year of law school. Her reading had become good- remarkably good, but she always seemed to find something more difficult and struggle with it. Sometimes she would read passages- very old passages- and still make something of them.

"Read this with me," Malena pleaded. She didn't ask too often, so he shut his book.

It was a poem, the 'Conqueror Worm,' by Edgar Allen Poe. Charles didn't know where she had gotten the book- perhaps her school library.

"I think I understand most of it- there are these mimes, who are like people, who are just running around in circles."

"I hate mimes," said Charles.

She laughed. "No, but I'm serious Mr. Charles."

And she read the passage.

_"But see, amid the mimic rout  
A crawling shape intrude!  
A blood-red thing that writhes from out  
The scenic solitude!  
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs  
The mimes become its food,  
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs  
In human gore imbued."_

She seemed enthralled with the sound of the words and her voice deepened as she said "In human gore imbued." Charles smirked at her. Where had such a little girl gotten a mind so dark?

"I don't really understand it," she said. So they went over it together- if mimes were people than the 'mimic route' was the movement of the people. Seraphs were angels, and the mimes, the people, were eaten by the crawling beast, the Conquerer Worm.

She closed the book and shut her eyes.

"And seraphs sob at vermin fangs

in human gore imbued," she whispered. "Imbued, that means covered in human gore?"

"Precisely. You like it?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she said almost cheerfully. "So when people die, they're eaten by worms?" she chirped.

"Sometimes," he answered, still marveling at the little demon he had in his house.

"There's some people I'd like to see eaten by worms." She sighed, and stared out the window, as wistfully as if she had wished for a puppy.

He chuckled. In truth, he had enjoyed the poem himself. He had some friends at school, but their friendships were akin to business partnerships. No one had the taste for darkness that he did. Malena was a very interesting child.

"Do you still want to be a lawyer?" he asked her.

"Of course I do." She says. She smiled. All her teeth had come in, with her two front teeth slightly forward, like a rabbit's. "And I think I understand what it means now."

"Good. I've got a job for you, but I'm not sure you'll like it. Sure you'd rather not go play?"

She snorted. Charles pulled back a chair at a wide table near his own desk. "Sit here," he said.

Malena sat and Charles dropped a huge pile of papers in front of her with a thud. He handed her a highlighter. This is a copyright infringement case- do you know what that is?

She shook her head. "You'll figure out soon enough. I want to highlight any phrase related to the Stannich-Wells corporation. You understand?"

Malena frowned. This wasn't what she expected. "I'll give you more tutoring, but you'll have to earn your keep," said Charles.

Malena sighed, and got to work. Every so often Charles would look up and see her furrowing her brow. The words must be difficult, but he could make out several highlighted spots in the pages she had sorted through. It would do her good to read the cases, even if she didn't quite get them yet.

Malena was an apt student, and soon he had her finding references and phrases in different books and documents. Charles was surprised that, at age eleven, she was making a fairly good assistant. He could even explain some business precepts to her.

The next year Malena turned twelve, and Charles graduated. He accepted his first job, working for a major record label. On the day of his graduation, she arrived at her usual time at his house, and looked at him expectantly.

"You've done a good job, kid," he said, gripping her shoulder. "And I think you've learned a lot. When you graduate, look me up, and I'll help you."

She stared at him and her lips contorted. She had seen that rage in her, when she was a much younger child. She had learned to contain he supposed, but now it was beyond her power. He wasn't sure what to say to her- she wasn't a normal kid, not that he understood them anyway.

She waited several seconds, her breath intensifying, and then turned, running down the road with alarming speed.

Charles frowned. He didn't like loose ends, and he had grown to care for the girl. It occurred to him, that with all his insight, he had behaved with an almost perverse stupidity. When she graduated- what would that be- six years? That was a long time for a child. Perhaps he could find her and make it right?

He made some inquiries around town that week, but people in her neighborhood weren't too open with a white man in a suit. He prided himself on getting information out of people, but he didn't have the time. He was due to fly out in a matter of days. So he left the city, and Malena, with only the shoddiest excuse of a goodbye.


	5. Past Remnants

Charles had recognized Malena almost immediately, though it had been so long since he had seen last seen her. She was a woman now all right, but with her clever hazel eyes, her active features, and her full lips it had only taken a glance to realize who she was. The long scar over her forehead simply confirmed it.

He had never bothered to seek her out again, though he had thought about it from time to time. But it was a sentimental pursuit, and he was fully involved with Dethklok and in the running of Mordhaus. Over the years, it had seemed less and less important until he had ultimately forgotten it.

It was a shock to see her like this, not only grown up, but filled out- and dressed like _that_. He had felt an almost paternal sense of disapproval, and when he had learned she had been sent to Skwisgaar's room his face had flamed.

Skwisgaar! The man was a total sexual deviant. The whole band was composed of perverts, but who knew what he got up to in there. And she just a child! Only she couldn't be, not after all this time. Yet when had eyes had turned toward him in the darkened hallway, they were so large, so mischievous and yet haunting. Something of the seven year old certainly lingered in them.

Now her mouth was wide open, and her recognition was clear. He didn't have the right to criticize her, not after all this time, but he couldn't help himself.

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked.

"What any groupie would," she answered simply, and her lips pursed together.

Skwisgaar came up behind Malena, and placed his hands on her shoulders. He was still furious with Charles for letting the Klokateers touch him.

"Leaves the ladys alone," he said. "You ams creepsing her out!"

"Do you even know her name, Skwisgaar?"

"I haven't figures it out yet," admitted Skwisgaar. "But I wills."

Malena snorted. "You may know my name and all, but I think you crazy, tellin' me what to do."

Charles noted the grammatical mistake, and felt a deep disappointment.

"You, ah, seem to not speak properly anymore."

Malena's eyes narrowed. "And? This is how we talk where I from, and I'm not embarrassed. I'm not gonna talk like no rich girl just cuz you think I should."

Was this the same girl, who at eleven, had recited and understood Poe? But even though her words were false, there was still something fine in her diction.

"Malena, I need you to come with me." He reached for her hand, and she retracted it.

Skwisgaar rolled his eyes. "Great. The robot finally gets a tastes of the sex, and now he ams stealing our groupies."

"I don't- I won't." She said at first. But she didn't exactly feel secure in Skwisgaar's room, with the artificial twins and the unlocked door. Plus she wanted to hear what he had to say for himself. It had been so long ago, and yet it had hurt her- badly. That nasty father of hers was one thing: he had been a curse from the start. But aloof as Mr. Charles had been, she had trusted him, and seen in him an escape from all the chains that bound her. When he had walked off with a few paltry words, it had been the ultimate betrayal.

Malena stared him dead on as if to say 'I'm not afraid of you' and nodded. He led her down a long corridor with identical weak lights, one after another. She felt like she was in her run-down high school again, if it were night, and if the hall had gone on forever.

They came to a beaten down wooden door, and when Charles opened it for her and she walked cautiously in, she gasped. It was so much like what she remembered- the leather chair, the bookcases, the small table set with globular bottles of high end liquor, and the red panels in the windows. Only everything had been upgraded. Finer leather, better liquor, and a wider assortment of books. She recognized some of the manuals, and she was tempted to open a book and read from it, just like she once had. And there was the old armchair- her armchair, only it had been replaced or reupholstered so there wasn't a scratch in it. It took all her will power not to sit in it when he offered it to her.

"I'll sit here," she said, choosing a modest office chair.

"Suit yourself," he said. Malena couldn't help notice his eyes wandering up and down her body. Only there wasn't a hint of desire in his eyes, only disapproval. He opened his liquor cabinet and paused before pouring himself a stiff drink.

"You gonna share?" she called out. She really needed it if they were going to talk.

He gulped. "Are you, ah, sure you're old enough?"

She laughed coldly. "I think I would know. I don't think you been keepin track of my birthdays. No cards, no nothing."

He poured her a glass Bourbon on the rocks and tried to water it down. "No," she said. "Not water. More Bourbon, please."

She noticed his hand shake a little as he complied. He looked up at her as though trying to make her out. Mr. Charles had changed over the years. His skin had weathered and there were wrinkles at his mouth and forehead. But the face had been unmistakable- he still had the high bridged nose, thin lips, and gaze of clear intelligence. He was dressed almost identically, all these years later.

He handed her the drink and sat down, looking to the side. It seemed that he wasn't sure what to say. She certainly wasn't going to help him. Finally he coughed.

"I certainly didn't, ahem, expect to see you here tonight."

He had all these little interruptions in his speech, but they weren't so much so impediments as embellishments. They actually made him sound _more _assured, and Malena realized that in spite of her deep seated anger towards him, she was anxious. She took a deep gulp of bourbon to calm her nerves, and Mr. Charles looked on with obvious discomfort.

"Well, why not? I'm as big a fan of Dethklok as anyone else." She took another sip and peered at him over the glass.

"Well, I seriously doubt that," said Charles, thinking of all the fans who had practically committed suicide to get near their idols. "But why would you want to be a groupie? That outfit-"he started, looking away. He didn't want to find the words to explain it. It was sexy as hell, but tasteless, and it made him cringe that on a certain level it appealed to him. She was still a kid to him. "It doesn't seem that the life of a groupie would be a good fit for you."

Malena put down her glass, hard enough that the sound reverberated over the table. "I don't think you got any idea what life would fit me." She barely concealed her bitterness.

He thought he could reason with her. "Well, you were a bright kid, and you must be a bright woman. What are you doing with yourself now?"

Red spots appeared on her cheeks. It wasn't a fair question to ask, not after he had left her like that. She had wanted to be a lawyer. But the dream and the motivation had slipped away with life in her neighborhood. No one cared about her, no one taught her except for the hapless teachers who spent most of the class period keeping the class in line. She had to spend her days hiding out from her Dad's wrath and filching money for him, an act that while it held some appeal for her as a sport, ultimately led to a feeling of loathing. If he had been there, if he had looked out for her-

And she looked around his office, at his glass of top quality bourbon, and it occurred to her that he simply wouldn't have. He wasn't that kind of man.

So what answer could she give him? She had found a sense of security in a string of boyfriends, dealers all, people with influence who could protect her from her father and the cops. She had a dread of the cops, and a good dealer could oil their palms and keep them away.

She was always aware that she needed cash of her own, as the notion of escape was always in the back of her mind. What she intended to escape from, her boyfriends or her life, she had never been sure. But though her boyfriends insisted she work for them, she stubbornly took on normal jobs. She was a cashier at a discount store, making minimum wage. It was mind numbingly boring, but in the heart of the store, with goods ranging from polyester pants to off-brand detergent, she felt an odd sense of safety. Just click the buttons, the numbers turn out right, and the transaction would be over. No need to look over her back.

"I am a cashier." She said simply, with no pride and no shame.

"Ah," he answered. He must have been disappointed, but he had the tact not to show it. He could have changed the course of her life, and had failed to do so.

"I've had a thought," said Mr. Charles carefully, pressing his hands to his brow. He lifted up his head. "I know this is, ah, a bit late. But I had a thought- only if you want, mind you-you might work for me."


End file.
